


after

by gladdecease



Category: Once Upon a Time (2011)
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Canonical Character Death, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e07 A Heart is a Lonely Hunter, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:58:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gladdecease/pseuds/gladdecease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-ep for "A Heart is a Lonely Hunter."</p>
            </blockquote>





	after

Mary Margaret has just taken one of the flowers Dr. Whale gave her and is twirling it between her fingers absently when Emma gets back. She comes in in a rush, the way she always seems to move from place to place: in a hurry, impatient to get where she’s going, except for the moment she arrives. Then she pauses, and Mary Margaret would almost say she looks disappointed, like she isn’t where she thought she’d be.

But Emma’s life is no business of hers, not details like that.

Details like how red her eyes are, how her lip is quivering, though? Those are her business, or she’s got no right to call herself a friend. She sets down the flower and goes to Emma, almost reaches for her, but holds back. Emma doesn’t like that normally, and who’s to say what she wants now? Certainly not Mary Margaret, but it won’t hurt to ask.

So, “Emma?” she asks. “What’s wrong, what happened?” Emma meets her eyes, opens her mouth and a sob comes out.

Mary Margaret has never heard Emma cry. She’s never heard anyone cry like this, like it’s only her arms wrapped around her keeping her sobs from tearing her apart, and she doesn’t like it one bit. Damn her insecurities, and _damn_ her reticence, Mary Margaret thinks, and reaches out and holds her.

In a way, it’s like comforting one of her students. Like how she would comfort her child, maybe. If she had one. She holds her close and makes soft, soothing sounds, and rubs a hand up and down Emma’s back. She makes promises she can’t keep, promises like _it’s okay_ and _I’m here, I’m not going anywhere_ , the kind of promise that is broken so easily. The kind that broke her heart just a few days ago.

For her part, Emma just wraps her arms around Mary Margaret and holds on. She tries to speak, but it only comes out as ragged gasps, a word followed by tears followed by a word, and Mary Margaret can make nothing of it.

Time passes, she doesn’t know how long. But eventually the crying stops. Some time after that, Emma pulls away, looking embarrassed and pleased and miserable, but mostly exhausted, wiping away tears. “Sorry I ruined your shirt,” she says, and it’s clear she meant for her tone to be laced with amusement, but there’s a quiver in her voice that gives her away. Still, she presses on. “I don’t know what came over me, I - “

“Emma,” Mary Margaret interrupts. She doesn’t do that often, but maybe she should. There are times when it feels like she’s drowning in everyone else’s words. Maybe it’s time to swim. “What happened?”

Emma averts her eyes, swallows. “Graham is dead.”

 

Across town, Henry has turned to a page in his book that the Sheriff never read. He looks at the illustration, of the Wicked Queen holding a blood red heart in her hand, threatening to _squeeze_ if the Huntsman ever steps out of line.

He wonders, for the first time, if breaking the curse is the right thing to do for everyone.

 

Regina brushes her hands clean of the dust. She closes the chest, slides the drawer back into its place, traces a hand across the other drawers lightly. This is her power, she thinks. This is her power over _all_ of them.

Her eyes are watering; the dust must have got in them.

Damn him.

She leaves the room, pushes her father’s empty casket over the hole again, and looks up at the epitaph.

Damn him too.

 

Deep in the woods, where nobody goes, there is a little patch of dirt, freshly turned over.

In the dirt grows a tiny little plant, with tiny little tasty leaves and tiny little periwinkle flowers, and a tiny little root like a parsnip’s, that tastes like radishes.

This is Mr. Gold’s plant. You had best not go near it.


End file.
